


Rest

by GoldenDaydreams



Series: Find Someone To Carry You [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Melancholy, Pining, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29117265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams
Summary: Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri finally make it to Kaer Morhen, but the keep brings a mood change in the bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Find Someone To Carry You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827439
Comments: 10
Kudos: 185





	Rest

Fire crackled, thick furs tickled Jaskier’s cheek and weighed upon his body. He never wanted to leave this bed. The world could go on merrily without him, and he’d stay burrowed in the warmth of the cozy little room. He, along with Geralt and Ciri, had finally made it to Kaer Morhen late in the previous night, cold, hungry, but whole. 

Introductions had been brief. Jaskier didn’t even remember walking through the fortress, surely couldn’t retrace his steps back to the door. Not that he wanted to. He was not leaving the bed. 

He fell back into a light doze, startled awake when the door creaked open. Not Geralt. A mountain of a man with a dark mop of hair, those same golden eyes that marked him a Witcher, three deep scars down the side of his face. Eskel. He didn’t wear armour, and that more than anything told Jaskier he was safe. Even the Witchers could relax here. 

The tunic he wore was too large, a lean year. Jaskier understood such things. He’d had years where his pants would barely stay on his hips, too little food, too much walking from place to place to perform for those with little money to spare. 

The scent of honey, and fresh bread had him paying a bit more attention to the tray carefully balanced in Eskel’s hands. He set down the tray on the small desk tucked between the bed and the wall. Not only fresh bread, but a little bowl of honey, sliced rectangles of cheese, a steaming cup of tea, and a whole apple. 

For that, Jaskier might not leave the bed, but he did sit up. 

Eskel raised a brow at him. “Good morning, I hope you slept well.” 

“I did, thank you.” 

Jaskier eyed the food longingly, and Eskel picked the tray back up, careful when he set it upon the bed. “Try not to get it in the furs.” Jaskier didn’t answer, just put a piece of cheese in his mouth, his stomach all too empty and desperate for sustenance. Once he had the first bite, he really dug in, ripping the bread apart, drizzling it with the bit of honey, stuffing his mouth with the sweetened bread and cheese. 

Eskel tended the fire, building it up once more from it’s low burning state. 

“Geralt’s tending to Ciri,” Eskel said to an unspoken question, but Jaskier was happy to hear of them. “She had some nightmares that kept her up.” Unsaid, was that it kept Eskel up, and the other Witchers with their sensitive hearing too. Jaskier frowned, he hadn’t heard anything. “She’ll probably sleep half the day away. Poor thing, she needs it.” 

Jaskier had his next bite halfway to his mouth before he paused. “Where are my clothes?” 

“Laundered. Geralt wanted it done before your belongings could become water damaged. A little late on your journal.” Eskel paused to look where the book was open near the fireplace. “Hopefully it’s salvageable.” He pushed some of his hair back from his face. “I guess you’ll need something to wear in the meantime.” Eskel glanced at the pile of damp at best clothes on the floor that Jaskier had stripped out of before climbing under the luxurious furs. “And those will need to be laundered as well.” 

“I’ll do it,” Jaskier said. As much as he didn’t want to leave the bed, he also didn’t want to be a burden. 

“You just eat breakfast, I’ll try and find something to fit you in the meantime.” He scooped up the clothes despite Jaskier’s protests. “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, and it wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “It’s Lambert’s rotation on laundry.” 

°°°

The first few days were spent recovering from the climb. The Witcher’s helpfully blocked off access to certain more dangerous areas of the keep with anything from barrels to rows of candelabras. New daily patterns were created. The Witchers did most of the heavy lifting, repairs on the walls, and some hunting before the snow got too deep. 

Jaskier and Ciri had been given kitchen duty for one day before the Witchers came to the realization that a travelling bard who’d been born a noble, and a literal princess might not actually be very good cooks. The meal they’d presented had been ‘edible’ which was the nicest word any of them had managed. Jaskier and Ciri were reassigned to dusting, and sweeping, and mopping, which in a place as big as the keep kept them busy for days. The Witchers never had to know about their mop handle sword fights, nor games of making up stories to go with the more interesting items they found. 

Jaskier tried to make the best of it, of the mundane chores, the too high snow, the cold, the echos in the emptiness of the keep. 

As nights went on, Lambert started to introduce him to the most foul alcohol he’d ever consumed. The taste didn’t stop him from getting drunk on it, but the two day hangover ensured he wouldn’t be touching the stuff again any time soon. 

He was taught new skills. Vesemir taught him to bake bread, and the best herbs for stew. Geralt presented him with a nice dagger, perfectly balanced, and started to show him the basics. 

At the end of his days, he’d return to the small room. Geralt would build a good fire, and Jaskier would curl up under the furs and fall into a heavy sleep. 

It was all so painfully monotonous. 

°°°

They’d been at Kaer Morhen a few weeks before he stumbled across the room during some cleaning. As far as he could tell it had once been an office, maybe a bedroom. There were scratches on the floor, as if heavy furniture had damaged it in the move. The room had a grand fireplace with a stone mantle, a couch that smelled a little musty, a little table that was stacked with a couple of old dusty tomes. It clearly hadn’t been used in ages. 

The wood had been very dry, easy to catch fire, even if it took him a little longer than usual. He’d been relying on Geralt and his igni too much again.

He’d snuck a few bottles of wine into the room, curled up with a blanket, and drank as he stared into the fire. He could hear the crackle of the logs burning, and what might be a rat scurrying in the hall. 

At this time, any other year, he’d be in his lodgings at Oxenfurt. He’d have played his lute well into the night, sang for an interested crowd, maybe he’d have taken someone back to his apartment in the faculty wing. Maybe he wouldn’t have played at all, instead spending the night drinking with friends before spilling out into the busy town. Yuletide would soon be coming up, and Oxenfurt would be decorated and festive. Even if he had stayed in, maybe to grade some papers, he’d still be half a bottle into the wine, and he’d hear those singing Yuletide jingles, or dirty tavern songs in the streets, or the chatter through the thin walls. 

He heard footsteps in the hall, breaking the quiet. Geralt peeked into the room, and Jaskier raised a bottle to him. “Hello, Geralt.” 

“You weren’t in your room, thought you might have gotten lost.” 

“Get lost? Here? You’ve effectively warded me off of certain areas of the keep making it much smaller than it looks on the outside. I couldn’t get lost if I tried.” 

Geralt stared, sighed, and joined him, sitting on the couch, Jaskier having to quickly pull his legs in to keep his feet from being sat on.

“You hate it here,” Geralt said softly. 

“Hate is a strong word.” 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier chugged some of the wine, looked through the green tinged glass to see there was less than a quarter left. “I’m just—” there wasn’t a word he knew that could fully encompass all he felt, but also owed Geralt an explanation for his melancholy. “I’m just lonely, I suppose.” 

Geralt’s brows furrowed. “You’re not alone.” 

“No, no I’m not.” He finished off the bottle of wine, and sat up, scooting closer to Geralt until he sat with his legs crossed on the middle cushion, right up against Geralt, who side eyed him. “It’s so quiet here.” 

“Really? Because I cannot get Lambert to stop bitching for more than five minutes.” 

Jaskier smiled a little. “Any other year and I’d be in Oxenfurt right now. I’d be surrounded by friends, and strangers alike.” There would be no lack of lovers either, but with Geralt so close to him, it felt wrong to say. “There would be no shortage of song, or dance, or theater.” Emboldened by the wine in his system, he rested his hand on Geralt’s knee, got a questioning look for his bravery. “I don’t regret coming here. Not only because of the threat hanging over my head, but also, what an experience! To get to see a Witcher’s fortress? To see your home! But, please understand, this is a place for warriors. It’s… it’s not for someone like me.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

“Right now? Keep me company?”

“I can do that.” 

“Excellent.” Jaskier leaned back, and twisted to reach out for the unopened bottle on the floor. Geralt’s hand was warm as it gripped Jaskier’s other forearm to help him back up. Jaskier smiled, and wiggled the bottle. “Refreshments!” He uncorked the bottle, and offered it first to Geralt who took a long drink before passing the bottle back. 

“That is much better than the swill Lambert makes.” 

“That is not a high bar to surpass.” 

Geralt smiled. “Suppose not.” 

Jaskier enjoyed the wine, the soft floaty buzz of alcohol in his system. There were words in his mind, ones which he knew better than to let slip past his lips. He just stared at Geralt, passing the bottle when Geralt motioned for it with his big, strong hands. And those forearms, who allowed him to roll up his sleeves like that? It was delightfully indecent. Jaskier giggled at the thought. 

Golden eyes shifted to him, and Jaskier bit his lip trying to silence his laughter. “What?” 

“Nothing.” 

Geralt raised a brow. “Nothing?” 

Jaskier reached out, and grabbed the bottle, his fingers brushing against Geralt’s. He took a swig of the wine, and licked a drop from his lips. He leaned a little closer as he whispered back, “nothing.” 

A little motion for the bottle, and Jaskier went to pass it back, only to pull it away when Geralt grabbed for it. He grinned, and held it back out again, pulling back when Geralt went to grab it again. “Too slow. All that time training to be beaten by a bard.”

“You’re not that fast.”

“Oh yeah, try an-” Breath left him and as he opened his eyes, he found himself on his back, Geralt’s one hand on the center of his chest, knee between his legs, other foot on the ground, the bottle in hand. Geralt smirked at him, drank from the bottle, and Jaskier prayed to Melitele he wouldn’t get hard at the sight. 

“Should have played nice,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier raised his leg a little, the one that Geralt was straddling. Geralt gave him a warning glare in return, hand gripping Jaskier’s shirt. “I’ll have you know, I can play very nice.” They’re words he shouldn’t have let slip past his lips, not with them touching in such a way. The excuse of too much to drink lingered like the wine did. 

There was something electric between them. A heat that couldn’t be blamed on the fire. Geralt’s hand flattened out, moved slowly up Jaskier’s chest, over the vulnerable line of his throat, and Jaskier shivered.

Those strong fingers explored along his jawline, and the stubble that grew there. Geralt’s thumb brushed along Jaskier’s bottom lip, and he was sure it was a dream. Nothing else made sense. Jaskier let his tongue dart out to taste his flesh, and it did nothing to break the spell between them. Instead, Geralt groaned. 

Jaskier pushed himself up, and Geralt’s thumb slipped down to his chin, angling his face just so. Those lips! How many times had he thought about kissing Geralt? Hundreds of times, and none of those seemingly perfect fantasies could live up to the real thing. Jaskier could write sonnets and ballads about those lips—oh those hands on his face, his shoulders, running down his chest, a subtle grind against his thigh, and Jaskier grabbed those wandering hands with a fair amount of regret. “Geralt, wait.” 

“Hmm?” 

“We should—and it pains me to say it—slow down.”

“I’ve never thought you the type to take it slow.”

Jaskier brushed his thumbs along Geralt’s knuckles, a little scraped up from repairing the walls. He raised one hand to his lips, and kissed three knuckles. “No one’s meant this much before.” 

Geralt seemed to consider it a moment, before shifting back, and sitting down once more on the couch. Jaskier missed the weight, the heat of him. Unsure how to continue for once in his life, he floundered, drunk and needy. Geralt pulled him in with an arm over Jaskier’s shoulder. He settled in, resting his head against Geralt’s shoulder, as they both stared into the fire. 

It wasn’t Oxenfurt. The winter would not be loud, and full of energy. But perhaps, Jaskier could learn to enjoy these moments of rest. 


End file.
